Wolves Beneath the Weirwood
by Order of Alignment
Summary: When Jon died for the second time, he had expected unending darkness, but had hoped for eternal peace. What he had not expected was to open his eyes again, gazing at a familiar ceiling in Castle Black. Meanwhile, on the run from the Boltons once again, Sansa sets her eyes on a man she hadn't seen since his exile beyond the Wall. [Time-Travel]
1. A Dead Man

A Dead Man

Darkness. That was all he saw, all he heard, all he felt. No Heavens. No Seven Hells. Just darkness.

_After all I've done for the living, this is my punishment in death?_

Yet, even as he thoughtheardspoke these words, the darkness began to shift, fragmented thoughts and words, sights and scents coalescing into concrete memories, of things from the past, and things from the future-

"_Next time we see each other, we'll talk about about your mother."_

_"You have a good heart, Jon Snow. It will get us all killed."_

"_JON SNOW AVENGED THE RED WEDDING! HE IS THE WHITE WOLF!"_

"_For the Watch."_

"_You're going to die today, Lord Bolton. Sleep well."_

"_I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsmen who ever walked!"_

"_You are my Queen."_

"_But you, Lord Snow… You'll be fighting their battles forever."_

"_Promise me, Ned._

_"I never met my mother. My father wouldn't even tell me her name. I don't know if she's living or dead. I don't know if she's a noblewoman or a fisherman's wife or a whore..."_

_"The crows killed him because he spoke for the Free Folk as no other southerner would. He died for us! If we are not willing to do the same, we're cowards. If that's what we are, we deserve to be the last of the Free Folk."_

"_Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you._"

"_Next time I see you, you'll be all in black._"

"_They were born on the wrong side of the Wall. That doesn't make them monsters._"

"_You may not have my name, but you have my blood._"

"_If I fall, don't bring me back._"

"_He is my king! From this day until his last!"_

"_You all crowned me your king. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. But I accepted it because the North is my home! It's part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds!_"

"_THE KING IN THE NORTH!"_

He had heard once, from Maester Aemon, that a person was made up of their collective memories and their experiences. And now, memories, not all his but all influenced by him, past, present, and future, were being laid bare to him in a way he had never witnessed before. And finally, they all came together to form something new.

And his memories shifted once more.

He found himself in front of Weirwood tree, snow blanketing the frozen earth up to his ankles. Wondering why a Weirwood he had never seen before was being shown to him, Jon focused on its signature face, said to be carved by the Children of the Forest long before the arrival of the First Men. He vaguely noted the presence of two others behind him, leaning on another tree just out of sight.

Then his gaze fell slightly lower, and his breath froze in his lungs.

It was the flaming hair that caught his attention first, a stark contrast from the white bark of the Weirwood it lay against. _Kissed by fire, _the Free Folk called it.  
Sansa Stark appeared to be sleeping, shivering even unconscious as her body tried to repel the harsh colds of the North, having been too long in the South. Jon stood, frozen in place as he stared at his cousin.

He hadn't seen her in ten years.

He took in her ragged appearance, thin clothes, and near lack of furs, and his concern mounted. _What is she doing out here?_ he thought. Why was she so far North? Then it came to him suddenly, and he clenched a fist in anger. _That's right. She was running from the Boltons._

_Ramsay._

The mere thought of the Flayed Man's Bastard sent fire coursing through his veins. He would love nothing more than to watch Sansa feed him to his own dogs.

Maybe he would get the chance, this time around.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he quickly trudged over to Sansa, boots sinking into freshly-fallen snow with comforting familiarity. He knelt in front of her, placing a palm to her cheek. To his surprise, she leaned into it ever-so-slightly, savoring the warmth it seemed to bring. _That cannot be possible- I'm dead, she can't possibly feel-_

His thoughts were cut off abruptly when her eyes snapped open, and Jon flinched backwards, away from the fire-kissed woman, nearly blending into the snow. Sansa, seemingly sensing something amiss, frantically threw her eyes from place to place before she finally focused and settled on him.

Only him.

"...Jon?" she murmured. She stood shakily, eyes widening in disbelief, and she took a step forward, extending an arm towards him, and he instinctively did the same, grabbing it, savoring her grasp. The two Wolves drew each other in with their gazes, and they both took one step more towards each other.

And then she was gone, whisked away by the wind. Jon found himself yearning to go back, aching for just one last glimpse at her. But, alas, his wishes were not heeded.

Oh, the gods were cruel indeed.

Instead, he found himself in the ruins of a massive underground chamber, and _somehow _Jon instantly knew where he was. The starting point of the dragonlords, the ancestral homelands of his family from his father's side.

_Valyria._

There was naught but broken pillars and debris that littered the massive cavern, devoid of anything of note.

Then he turned around, and was met with the giant snout of a dragon.

Strangely enough, Jon did not flinch back in shock or fear. In fact, he held no fear for the massive pale beast before him. As it would seem, the dragon bore him no malice, simply watching him, seemingly content with observing him from where it lay. It then nudged its snout forwards slightly, and Jon only hesitated for a moment before extending his arm forwards and laying his palm on it.

It felt warm.

The dragon immediately pulled back, rearing its head towards the stars hidden above the earth, and let out a mighty roar as the chamber began to collapse around them.

And then it was gone, the sights and smells and sounds distorting until it was once again darkness.

And then it turned to light.

"_**Awake, Azor Ahai. You are not yet done.**_"

* * *

The boy died. A man was born.

The dead man woke.


	2. The Arrival

Sansa I

Just like every other member of her family, Jon disappeared in front of her eyes.

Had this been her first time running from the Boltons, she might have taken it for a vision, a sign that her last brother, her only hope, was dead.

He _was_, of course, but that didn't explain the apparition.

She had nearly broken down when she had awoken slumped against a tree, Brienne standing watch not to far away and Podrick slumbering by the remnants of the campfire. It hadn't taken her too long to realize that no, this was not a nightmare. It was real.

Ramsey was still alive, Baelish was still alive, Cersei was still alive.

She realized this, and despaired.

Had everything she and her family had gone through been for nothing? Winterfell was once again in the hands of the Boltons, Bran beyond the Wall, Rickon a prisoner, Arya somewhere in the Riverlands, and Jon…

With her family scattered and broken after the War for Dawn, Jon was the one she missed the most, not to her surprise. He had been the one to hold her, comfort her when she first arrived at Castle Black. Despite her treatment of him during their shared childhood in Winterfell, he embraced her with no hesitation. Not guile, no deceit, no ulterior motives.

Just unconditional love for a sister that had never loved him back.

But, as she felt the warmth of a true embrace for the first time in years, she found that she wanted to make up for that lost time.

And now it was all for naught.

Or so she had thought, after contemplating her circumstances.

Was this her punishment?

She had broken a sacred vow, she knew. She had sworn to Jon in front of the Heart Tree, in the eyes of the Old Gods. Regardless of whether or not it was to protect him, he had asked, she had sworn, and she had broken her promise.

Surely, this was her punishment for breaking such a vow. Forced to relive the events that left her empty and alone, that alone was bad enough. But forced to live with the memories of what happened? The deaths, the betrayals, what came after…

Sansa had honestly considered just killing herself. It would be far less painful.

Then Jon appeared before her, in front of the weirwood, and reached out for her, and suddenly she found she did not want to die.

She managed to get a few more hours of precious sleep before the sun began to rise, and with it her sworn protectors rose as well.

Brienne, noticing the bags under her eyes, frowned. "Lady Sansa, did you sleep well? You look rather tired."

Sansa shook her head. "I slept rather well," she lied, "I'm just very anxious to get to my c- brother at Castle Black."

"Well," Brienne said, looking upwards. "Should it not snow too heavily, we should be able to reach Castle Black just after noon." Sansa nodded, and returned to helping Podrick pack what little they had on the horses. "Well then, let's be off."

Behind her, Brienne hesitated. "...Lady Sansa, are you sure that Jon Snow is trustworthy? Surely we could head someplace else? Perhaps I could escort you to Tarth?"

"Jon," Sansa said stiffly, "is the person I trust most in the world. He will protect us." _Me. He will protect me._

Brienne nodded, and the they were off within the hour.

* * *

Jon I

"I fought. I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow… you'll be fighting their battles forever."

Jon said nothing, simply opting to stare at Ser Alliser Thorne in contemplation. A part of him want to gloat in his face that he was the true heir to the Iron Throne (even if he had no desire for it) but in the end he decided to keep that secret to himself a while longer. _It's not time to reveal that yet. I need to bide my time._

_I need to play the Game._

It irked him that he would have to stoop to the level of his adversaries, covered in the grime of lies and schemes, but he had little choice, he knew.

Slow learner as he may, he learned. And his time with both Sansa and Daenerys had taught him to play the Game well. If he was to get the North to survive the coming Long Night, he would have to use all he learned.

_Uncle is surely rolling in his crypt._

If he ever saw Eddard Stark again, he would have many words for him. But foremost of all would be his thanks. His reputation of Ned Stark's bastard shielded him from the worst, and gave him the reputation of a man of his word.

He would be sure to exploit that.

Ignoring Olly, he swung Longclaw and watched the mutineers hang.

He watched, somewhat bored as they took down the bodies of the mutineers, and Ed strode up to him. "What now?" The other Brothers stopped, waiting for Jon to give the order to torch the bodies.

Jon thought about it for a moment, then had an idea. "Burn the others, but tie a rope around Thorne and throw him over the Wall."

Ed blinked. "...What? Why in the Seven Hells do we need to do that?" He walked besides Jon as they made their way to the Lord Commander's solar. "You know he's going to get Raised again, so why?"

"That, Ed, is exactly why." As they entered the solar, Jon placed Longclaw to the side and sat down at the desk. Ghost, who had been confined in the room for the executions immediately placed his head of Jon's lap, and he grinned and rubbed it. Pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill, he began to write, before continuing. "If I am to convince the realm of the threat of the White Walkers I need evidence. A Wight is plenty of evidence."

Ed nodded in understanding, then stopped. "Wait, convince the- Jon, you're not planning on _leaving_, are you?" When Jon nodded, Ed's face turned aghast. "Why? You know what's coming! You can't just-"

"I can, and I will." Jon stopped writing and looked up at his friend. "To hold the Wall, we need men. To get men, we need the North. We need Winterfell."

Ed gaped at him. "Are you fucking _mad_? You're going to take Winterfell? You don't even have an army!"

"I have the Free Folk," Jon corrected. "And I'll appeal to the Mormonts, the Hornwoods, the Mazins. The North remembers, Ed. They will rally to the Direwolf when the time comes." _Come to think of it, I never asked the Mountain Clans to join. I doubt they would readily accept Bolton rule..._

"And what about us?" Ed raged. "Who's going to lead us?"

Jon stood up, seat scraping at the the wooden flow. Ed watched curiously as Jon undid his cloak, then gaped as it was handed to him. "You can't be serious."

Placing the cloak in Ed's hands, Jon returned to the desk. "I'm serious, Ed. You'll do the Night's Watch some good." Finishing the letter, Jon searched the desk drawers filled with stamps with all sorts of sigils from the various Lord Commanders of the centuries. Finding one to his liking, he poured a bit of wax on the rolled of parchment and pressed the stamp into it, and gave a grunt of satisfaction as the snarling direwolf stared back. Pocketing the letter, he sighed, standing up again and again turning to his friend. "Ed, I-"

A horn blew, and Jon was instantly on his feet, words forgotten.

"What in the Seven Hell..?" Ed muttered, but Jon paid no heed.

The Red Wolf had arrived.


	3. A Bundle of Furs

Sansa

Unlike the first time she had ridden into Castle Black, Sansa felt no uncertainty, no fear of the previously unknown future. Despite the burning aches her reopened wounds gave her, she felt at peace.

She would see Jon soon, and that made her unbelievably happy.

In a way, she was glad that she had the chance to do this all over again. She could stop the mistakes that led to their downfall before they even started, an Sansa would not waste such an advantage.

"_Open the gates!_"

Brienne gave a sigh and urged her horse forward, Podrick and Sansa quickly following suit. They entered the courtyard with the near silent fanfare as before, but unlike before, Sansa knew where Jon was for certainty.

She had only begun to dismount her horse when a door slammed open on the ramparts. She instinctively turned to look up to greeted with a sight she last saw in a dream days ago.

Jon stared down at her, seemingly in awe, and the two Wolves held each others' gaze for a moment, before Jon rushed down the steps, practically soaring down from ramparts. Sansa moved to meet him, and leapt into his open arms as soon as his feet met the ground.

"Sansa," Jon murmured. "Gods be good, it's you."

She let out an amalgamation of a laugh and a sob at that and tightened her grip on him. "I- I didn't think I'd ever see you again." She gave a shaky smile. "Thank you for proving me wrong."

"Always."

Sansa smiled at the sheer conviction in Jon's voice, once again amazed at the amount of truth he placed into his words. He was, in truth, the only man she could ever really trust.

The whispers and murmurs stared to grow louder as the Brothers of the Night's Watch made sense of the scene before them. Before it could reach its crescendo, Jon broke their embrace (to her reluctance; his arms felt warm) and turned to them. "Alright, get back to work."

There was a momentary pause, then the Brothers went back to whatever tasks they had been doing before. Sansa grabbed his hand again, and Jon squeezed lightly in response.

It gave of the same warmth as the hand that had cradled her cheek in that dream.

Was it a dream, though?

The Stark wasn't stupid; she had noticed the change in her arrival. Jon had taken longer to embrace her the first time she had arrived, and Sansa couldn't recall a time where Jon ever slammed a door open, either in a fit or in an urgent rush. She wasn't sure what that meant; did he remember, or was it just coincidental?

She would ask him later. They had enough problems as it was, and she wanted to rest before having that conversation. Jon seemed to notice that, and gestured for Brienne and Podrick to follow him, and he began to gently guide her upstairs to his solar. Turning back, he addressed her sworn shield. "I owe you a great debt for seeing Sansa safely to Castle Black, Lady Brienne. Should you need anything, ask and I'll do my best to see it done."

"Thank you, Lord Commander," Brienne bowed her head slightly. "It was my duty to protect Lady Sansa, and my honor." Jon nodded his head at that. "How about you go with Ed to find some sleeping quarters? We can meet in his solar in an hour. I'll see if the cook can prepare something filling."

The newcomers nodded, Brienne and Podrick following Ed to some nearby rooms, after Sansa assured them she had no need of them at the moment. She and Jon watched them go for a moment before continuing to Jon's (Ed's?) solar.

"Wait for me inside, I'll go to the kitchens." She nodded at Jon's request, and he squeezed her hand gently before heading down to get something for them to eat. Sansa stood still for a moment, attempting to stimulate the warmth Jon's hand had taken when she released it, then shook her had and entered the solar.

She let out a gasp when Ghost barreled into her, then laughed. Kneeling besides the massive Direwolf, she was subjected to a lick on the face, to which she only smiled and ruffled Ghost's fur. Almost unconsciously, she buried her head in his pelt, and breathed. He smelt nice, like a calm winter storm intermingled with the scent of pine. Somewhere in her head, she recalled the last time she had smelt this was in King's Landing.

The last time she saw Jon.

Her smile faded, and she moved to sit on a nearby chair, Ghost following and laying down at her feet. Shaking her head, she dispelled those thoughts. _There is no need. Jon is here, alive and well. We can change things for the better. We _will _change things for the better._ She smiled again. It was a strange feeling, to have the upper hand on her enemies, but she would take it. With her knowledge and Jon's prowess for war and leader, they could take back Winterfell and save the North, and their family.

It was on that uplifting thought that she finally dozed off.

She dreamed of a white wolf.

* * *

Jon

When he saw Sansa, he felt as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. Her red, tousled hair, her pale skin, her _stance_. Despite all the pain and discomfort she was obviously going through, she stood tall. A true daughter of Winterfell.

The Red Wolf.

Then he could breath again, and everything in him told him to close the gap between them as fast as possible, and he did. She was cold from her time spent in the elements, but that did not detract from the warmth he felt brewing in his chest when they collided. "Sansa," he exhaled. "Gods be good, it's you." He tightened the embrace, and, to his relief, Sansa reciprocated.

The last thing that had embraced him was death.

After getting the introductions out of the way, he had Edd show Podrick and Brienne to their rooms whilst he took Sansa to the Lord Commander's solar. After mentally telling Ghost to watch over her (his exile Beyond the Wall had given him some much-needed time to sort out his Warging abilities; his bond with the pale Direwolf was stronger than ever), he left them and proceeded to the kitchens. Thankfully, just like last time, the cooks had just finished preparing the day's meal, a hearty soup that would be sure to leave Sansa fulfilled and warm. He took two bowls, thanked the chefs, and cut across the courtyard back to solar.

On the way, Edd met up with him again, having fulfilled Jon's earlier request. "I took them to some spare rooms. They left their stuff there and decided to go straight to guardin' your sister."

Jon flinched slightly at that; he had come to terms long ago that Sansa was not his sister, and to here Edd refer to her as such was admittedly a tad bit strange. "They don't trust us, Edd, and rightfully so. They've just escaped fro the Boltons, only to come to a castle filled with rapists and murderers."

Edd frowned at that, but nodded. "Aye, you got a point there." The two said nothing more, and parted ways when they arrived at Jon's (Edd's) solar, the Brother squeezing Jon's shoulder for a moment before heading back to the lower bowels of Castle Black.

Ghost lifted his head as the door opened, and Jon smiled as the wolf paced over to him, rubbing the scruff of his neck. "Hey, boy. How is she?" His companion turned his red eyes towards the chair furthest from him, and his eyes softened when he caught sight of Sansa sleeping on it. Chuckling softly, he made his way over to her and gently lifted her into his arms, carrying her into the adjoining room connected to the solar. Laying her on the Lord Commander's bed, he arranged the furs to cover her and squeezed the pillow underneath her head. She seemed to unconsciously burrow into the furs, pulling them towards her to hoard it's warmth.

Jon approached her slowly, drinking in the visage. During his exile, he had often thought about his family, and, more often, Sansa. Despite his best attempts, he still felt resentment for Bran, or _whatever_ resided in him, banishing him from his home, although perhaps he deserved.

He had also thought often of Arya, at least until the raven arrived with news from both Winterfell and King's Landing that the wreckage of Arya's ship had been found washed up across the shores of the North, and no sign of the Stark or her crew.

It was the only time he had cried during his exile.

As if sensing his thought, Ghost nudged Jon's hand, taking it in his maw and placing it clumsily on Sansa's forehead. His melancholic mood faded away as he gently sifted through his cousin's red hair.

So enraptured in his task he was that he did not notice Sansa had awoken until he moved her head to look at him.

There was a pause for a moment, then Jon retracted his hand reluctantly. "Good morning. Sleep well?"

Sansa blinked, the sleep vanishing from her eyes. "Morning? Did I truly sleep that long?" Jon held his solemn expression for a few more seconds before he broke, smirking. "No, I imagine you've been asleep for not even two-and-ten minutes."

Sansa smiled, then, to his confusion, moved to the far side of the bed, before making room in the furs. After a moment, she raised an eyebrow. "Are you not cold? You've not even a cloak on."

Jon flushed slightly when he realized she was inviting her to bed. "Sansa, I- We can't. It would improper of us, and we are no longer at the age where siblings can share-"

"No, we are not."

Jon froze. Sansa's smile had faded, the look in her Tully-blue eyes revealing that she knew all to well of what her words meant, for both of them. Still, a part of Jon could not believe. "What… do you mean by that? I know we do not share the same mother, but our father is still Lord Stark." _Surely, she can't-_

Sansa's eyes softened. "There are a many great things we must address, _Aegon._"


	4. Tommorow, Then

Sansa

The change in his expression was instant, Sansa noted. In the span of a second, Jon went from confused and flustered to downtrodden, eyes faced away from her, his face full of guilt, and she mentally berated herself. She couldn't have gone one day without making things worse for him, could she?

Jon gave a shuddering sigh, placing the bowls of soup on a nearby table before seating himself on the edge of the bed. "Don't call me that, please. I'm Jon, I always have been."

Sansa's heart cracked slightly. "Forgive me, I- I didn't know the best way to broach the subject. But we must speak. At least on a few matters of importance."

"Aye," Jon agreed, and with that they were silent for a moment. Where to begin, Sansa thought to herself. Thankfully, Jon started for them. "I assume you remember the Long Night, then?" She winced, and Jon gave a humorless chuckle. "_Gods_, what was I _thinking_? I sent you down into the crypts filled to the brim with dead as if our enemy couldn't raise them to fight!"

Sansa could see where this was going, having gone down the self-blame route countless times. "Jon-"

"I ordered a hunt beyond the Wall for a single Wight when I could've just thrown the corpse of one of the Boltons over the Wall! I had our seige weapons _in front_ of our infantry! I had our cavalry charge straight into the undead and I. Did. _Nothing_."

"_Jon_-"

"And," Jon sneered at himself. "I made the mistake of trusting those close to me. You would think I would've learned from when my own Brothers murdered me, wouldn't you? Olly, Bran, Danaerys… you." He laughed. "Ygritte was right."

She had gone silent halfway through his rant, her own pent up feelings stopping her from stopping him, and as soon as he was done she let it loose.

"A _mistake_ to trust me?" Sansa grit her teeth. "How many times did I prevent Baelish from killing you outright? How many times did I warn you to _not go South_? And when you finally returned home, you did so having _bent to the Dragon Queen!"_

"I HAD NO CHOICE!"

Sansa flinched away from Jon at his shout, and stared. Jon did the same, seemingly frozen by his uncharacteristic lapse in restraint. "Sansa, I-"

"You had every choice." She was glaring at him now. "She had already pledged to come North before you bent the knee, did she not? Bending the knee was an unnecessary-"

"It was entirely necessary if we wished to live beyond the Long Night!"

Sansa blinked.

_What?_

"While I was on Dragonstone," Jon elaborated, "I learned of her time in the East, in the Free Cities. Do you know how she got her Unsullied? She gave her word, traded her dragon, and once the eunuchs were under her control, she had the man who sold them to her _burnt alive _and killed every free man in the city, whether they had slaves or not. She killed the heads of Essosi families for crimes they may or may not have committed, and she burnt the last Khals of the Dothraki in their own homes."

_I- I didn't-_

"How could I trust her word? I had no choice but to bend," Jon despaired. "The Northerners would hate her, insult her, and I knew that if we were not her subjects she would burn Winterfell to the ground for our 'rebellion' as soon as the Long Night was over. I couldn't-" Jon's voice caught in his throat. "Winterfell had already burnt once. I couldn't let it happen again. I would not have you lose your home because of my follies."

_...oh._

Jon had been thinking with his head when he bent. As always, he had done what was best for their people, whilst she had made things worse.

She was beginning to understand why the Old Gods sought to punish her so.

Sansa dragged herself out of the sheets Jon had clad her with, and sat next to Jon. She said nothing for a moment, and the two sat in silence.

"Forgive me."

Jon sighed, and shook his head. "There's nothing to forgive, and the fault is with me. What was done is undone."

Sansa's head turned towards Jon, who was half-smiling with his eyes closed. Opening them, he turned to her. They stared silently at each other until he finally relented. "Fine, fine. Only if you forgive me as well."

"There's nothing to forgive," Sansa parroted back to Jon, and to her relief, the dragonwolf laughed.

"_Forgive me."_

She smiled. "I forgave you a long time ago, Jon." She brought her forehead to his. "Now, will you forgive me?"

Jon grinned. "Did I not do that in King's Landing? Come to think it, I did so in this very castle. All is well, Sansa," and she felt her soul rejoicing gratefully. However, she frowned as Jon stood up, and made to leave. "Now that we've gotten that… unpleasant bit of news out of the way, I'll leave you to your meal. We can talk tomorrow."

_Yes, we'll talk tomorrow. But I will not be deprived of you again, Jon. Not if I can do something about it._

* * *

Jon

His attempt to escape was thwarted when when Sansa tugged his on his tunic, pulling him backwards, and he did nothing to stop his fall, letting the bed do it for him. Disorientated for a moment, he blinked once and saw the fire-kissed Stark gazing down at him. "And where do you think you're going? You need to sleep, Jon."

Jon set his lips in a stubborn line. "No, I do not."

Sansa let out a frustrated huff with a likeness to Ghost that said Direwolf looked at them blearily from his resting place. "If I recall correctly, the last time you died here, you didn't touch your bed for a week before Edd told me."

"And you think dragging me into bed with you will help me sleep?" he asked incredulously, and Sansa nodded, though her cheeks flushed pink slightly. "It helped last time, did it not?"

Jon nodded, conceding her point; in their old lives, after the had retaken Winterfell, they had occasionally slept with each other to either comfort the other or to scare the night dreams away. The practice ended when he left for Dragonstone and returned with a foreign queen by his side. "Aye, I suppose it did."

Moving over, Sansa once again disappeared into the furs, leaving room for him, and this time, he accepted. He would admit he was tired, and a dreamless sleep sounded wonderful. He let himself relax, the tension he had been feeling since waking up again slowly fading in the presence of the woman besides him, and his eyes fluttered. Before he fell asleep, he turned to Sansa, who was also on the verge of rest.

"_Oíche mhaith, mac tíre milis_."

And though he fell asleep before he heard her reply, she smiled, and answered.

"_Oíche mhaith, mac tíre cróga_."

The game had changed, and they both knew so. There would be plans to make, issues to work through, and the impending issue of the Dragon Queen, Cersei, and the Long Night to deal with, but…

That was something they could handle tomorrow. Together.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

And so they slept, and dreamt of a den full of wolves.

* * *

_The beast stared at the ruins of what had been it's home for centuries, and the dragon stared at it in reverence. While it had, at first, hated it's prison, barring it from beloved flight, it had been the only thing keeping him from meeting the fate of his brethren. It had thought to remain in eternal slumber, so it had been surprised when it had been roused, by a dragonlord, no less._

_**His**_ _dragonlord._

_As per the way, he had bowed his snout and presented it to the stranger, to be accepted or rejected._

_The stranger had accepted, and the bond had been created. For the first time, the dragon spread its wings and touched the sky._

_It's master was far away, in a land of ice and snow, but where the master willed to go, he would follow._

_And so it went, and Valyria fell into silence once more._

_The last dragon went to join it's rider._

* * *

_"Oíche mhaith, mac tíre milis."** (Good night, sweet wolf.)**_

_"Oíche mhaith, mac tíre cróga." **(Good night, brave wolf.)**_

**A/N: Don't worry, I'm still alive, just lazy.**

**Welp, next chapter we move on from Castle Black to another pair of Northerners, only further North. Until next time.**


	5. Raven's Blood

Bran

_It was strange, walking amongst the dead with no fear._

_Yet, that is what Bran does, watching them stand stock still, facing forward as he made his way through their ranks. _

_If he were any other man, or if he had truly been __**herethere**__, he would either have been terrified out of wits, running for his life, or dead. _

_Then he would be raised to join the army of the dead's ranks, something that the eldest Stark son had no wish to partake in._

_Above him, a blood-eyed raven, plumed with white, crowed at him as he continued to pass through the ranks of the dead, finally alighting on his shoulder when he cleared them, and Bran saw them. Him._

_He Who Brings the Night. Death of Dawn. Stealer of the Sun. Lord of the Lands of Always Winter. The Great Other._

_The Night King._

_Once the last defence against the onslaught of the First Men before the Pact, now the greatest enemy the world had ever known. Bran somewhat pitied the former First Man. Maybe he had been a Stark, once? Mayhaps-_

_And then Bran realized the Night King was looking at him._

_Not through him, like others had in his visions._

_**At**_ _him._

_Then he turned back, only to come face to face with the army of the dead, all looking at him, like their King, and Bran's breath hitched._

_He feared now._

_Backing up in a panic from the leering dead eyes, Bran jolted forward again when the sound of snow crunching beneath a foot came from behind him, and he turned again._

_**He**_ _stood before him._

_Bran couldn't move._

_He couldn't move he coul__**dn't move why can't I move-**_

_The Night King reached forward, slowly, tantalizing, taunting._

_Then the raven on his shoulder took flight and peck Bran in the forehead, where his 'third eye' was._

_And Bran saw, and remembered._

_His first thought was immediately of his last conversation with Meera, before his mind caught back up to his present situation, and his thoughts were replaced with fear._

_And the raven crowed._

"_**Fly, fool!"**_

_Just before the Night King grasped him, Bran threw himself to the side, the cold hand grabbing nothing but air._

_"He- he missed."_

_Still on the ground, Bran flinched when the Night King turned to him with anger in his eyes, and stomped forward towards him._

_Bran screamed._

_Then he woke._

* * *

Meera

Meera had been sleeping not too far from Bran when her dreams were invaded by memories of another life.

She would have been content to let her dreams continue to be dreams had she not seen Bran in one of her memories.

Only, Bran was dead, an empty husk, nothing but a host for that _daemon _of a Targaryen bastard that should have long been deceased. Of course, as usual, it was the ones closest to her who died, leaving behind nothing. First Jojen, sacrificing himself to see Bran safely to the Three Eyed Raven. Then Bran himself, his soul being cast from his body in order to prepare for the spirit of the Bloodraven to transfer from his decrepit, dead body into a younger one.

Then is was her father, which she discovered upon returning home for the first time in years, leaving her with the duties as the last Reed of Greywater Watch, Lord of the Marsh and Protector of the Neck.

Duties that never should have been hers in the first place.

And yet, the Old Gods willed it, and who was she to refuse what they gave? So she took up the mantle of the Lord of the Marsh, and ruled, never again leaving the Neck.

Not even when Bran was declared King.

Not even when he was killed five years later.

She hadn't expected to see Bran again, the _real _Bran, the one she could admit herself to imagine spending the rest of her life with.

Those dreams had died in this cave.

She'd be damned if she let that happen again.

_I don't care if he gains the power of the Three Eyed Raven. I don't care if the Bloodraven dies. I don't care about what the Children might think._

_I just need him to live._

So when Bran's scream of fear pierced her dreams, she let herself wake.

Blinking away the sleep from her eyes for a moment, the first thing she noticed was the Bloodraven looking at her, and a rage only matched by the sadness caused by her last conversation with Bran overtook her, and she pulled out her hunting knife, and made to stand up, all the while the Children watched with curiosity.

Then Bran called out to her.

"...M-Meera?"

She lingered in place for a moment, before turning away from the Bloodraven and kneeling at Bran's side, dragging him away from the Weirwood roots, the latter grasping her arm desperately as she did. Bran had a begging look in his eyes that pleaded something indiscernible to her as he turned to look at her. He opened his mouth to speak-

Only to be interrupted by the Bloodraven, who was staring at her in shock. "What have you done?"

Bran seemed to flinch at his voice, and Meera glared at the Valyrian bastard. "We remembered," is all she said.

The Bloodraven frowned. "This… this must be remedied. Return young Brandon to the roots. It is time he-"

"No."

Both Meera and the Bloodraven shifted their glares away from each other and looked at Bran, who seemed to have recovered from whatever it was that had ailed him. "If you think," he spat at the Bloodraven, "that I lost my legs, my ability to walk, my home, my friends, my _family,_ only for you to possess me and make my body your own, you are sorely mistaken, Bloodraven."

The old man was silent for a moment, then turned to the Children. "Bind the girl, then bring the boy back to the roots."

Bran and Meera froze, and they turned towards Leaf and the other Children, who simply stared back.

And then they went slack.

Both Northerners flinched back against the cave walls, when blood-red sap began pouring out of the Children's eyes, and they turned in unison to the Bloodraven, who looked just as shocked and horrified. "Did- did you not here me?! I _said_-"

"**̴Y̸o̴u̸ ̸f̶o̷r̴g̵e̷t̵ ̴y̷o̴u̷r̶ ̷p̵l̴a̶c̶e̴,̵ ̷V̶a̶l̵y̵r̴i̷a̷n̷.̷"̴**

The Children spoke in unison, their voices echoing off the cave walls, yet their mouths did not move. Hodor cowered in the far corner, shielding himself from the scene, while Summer stood beside his master staring at the spectacle.

Both Bran and Meera could only watch as the Children surrounded the immobile Bloodraven like a pack of wolves surrounds its prey, inching ever so closer.

The Children spoke again.

"**̵Y̸o̵u̵ ̴f̶o̸r̵g̴e̴t̴ ̷t̸h̶a̸t̴ ̸t̶h̵e̵ ̶t̷a̶s̶k̴ ̴g̵i̷v̸e̶n̸ ̴t̸o̶ ̸y̶o̵u̵ ̸w̴a̵s̵ ̵n̶e̶v̶e̷r̵ ̴t̸o̵ ̸b̵e̵ ̸u̵s̶e̷d̸ ̴f̴o̶r̴ ̶y̴o̷u̷r̷ ̵o̶w̸n̶ ̵b̴e̷n̴e̶f̴i̵t̸,̴ ̴b̷u̶t̴ ̷f̴o̵r̸ ̶h̴u̶m̸a̸n̸i̸t̵y̵.̴"̸**

They inched closer, and the Bloodraven's terror mounted, and he turned to the Northerners, his face pleading for help.

They did not move.

"**̵Y̴o̸u̵ ̵a̸r̸e̶ ̵n̴o̵ ̶l̸o̵n̴g̸e̸r̸ ̴w̶o̷r̶t̵h̵y̷ ̸o̷f̴ ̷t̴h̸e̴ ̸T̷h̵r̶e̴e̶ ̷E̶y̶e̸d̸ ̸R̴a̷v̵e̷n̵.̵ ̴Y̸o̷u̶ ̶h̸a̶v̷e̴ ̸b̵r̸o̶k̶e̸n̵ ̵y̵o̵u̵r̷ ̸v̵o̸w̶s̴,̸ ̸a̵n̵d̷ ̵y̸o̷u̴ ̷w̴i̵l̵l̶ **_**̵s̵u̶f̵f̵e̵r̶**_**.̷"̴**

It was only when the roots of the Weirwood tree started writhing and pierced his skin did the Bloodraven begin to scream. It only grew louder as the old man was slowly consumed by the very roots he had made himself home in for centuries.

Meera retched.

Bran puked.

The Children watched.

Then, just before the Bloodraven was completely devoured, Leaf stepped forward, placing a hand on the old man's chest.

"**̶R̸e̶a̶p̶ ̷w̵h̷a̵t̵ ̸y̸o̴u̷ ̵s̵o̴w̷,̶ ̶B̷l̴o̵o̵d̶r̴a̵v̴e̵n̷.̸"̷**

Then her claws pierced skin, and came away with the Bloodwaven's still-beating heart, and the Three Eyed Raven let out one final gurgle before the Weirwood tree consumed him whole.

There was silence, only broken by the whisper-chanting of the Children.

Then even that stopped, and quiet reigned for a moment more.

Then they Children turned to the Northerners in unison.

"**̷F̴e̷a̸r̷ ̶n̷o̸t̵,̸ ̷y̸o̷u̸n̴g̶ ̵o̷n̵e̵s̴.̸ ̸W̵e̶ ̸m̵e̶a̴n̴ ̸n̶o̷ ̷h̵a̵r̴m̸.̶"̵**

Meera seems to consider the statement, the spoke up tentatively. "Who- what are you? This didn't happen-"

"**̴-̷l̷a̷s̴t̷ ̴t̷i̴m̸e̶,̵ ̸n̴o̴ ̴i̷t̵ ̷d̶i̴d̸ ̷n̵o̵t̷.̷"̶**

Meera and Bran blinked in surprise, then the eldest Stark son spoke. "You… you know we've lived this life before?"

"**̷W̶e̴ ̴k̶n̵o̸w̷ ̸a̴l̴l̵.̴ ̶W̷e̶ ̶s̶e̵e̴ ̷a̵l̴l̷.̶"̵**

He gasped. "You- you're the Old Gods," he murmured reverently.

The Children began to move in tandem towards the Northerners, stopping about half an arms-length away from them. Still, Meera shifted in front of Bran slightly.

"**̶W̸e̴ ̶c̸o̴m̸e̷ ̴n̷o̸t̶ ̷t̴o̴ ̴h̶a̸r̶m̴ ̴y̷o̷u̵,̸ ̵b̵u̷t̸ ̵t̴o̵ ̴r̶e̷w̵a̸r̴d̷ ̵y̴o̸u̶.̷"̴**

They blinked.

_What?_

"Why?" Meera asked. "We've done nothing to deserve-"

**"̸Y̴o̷u̶ ̴h̷a̴v̵e̸ ̵d̴o̸n̵e̸ ̸m̶u̶c̷h̸ ̸m̶o̶r̵e̶ ̶t̸h̶a̶n̶ ̶m̷o̸s̸t̷.̶Y̸o̸u,"** they turned to gaze at Meera, "**̵h̷a̸v̷e̷ ̸s̷a̷c̶r̷i̴f̴i̷c̶e̴d̴ ̴m̴u̴c̶h̵ ̶t̷o̸ ̵s̸e̷e̶ ̶t̵h̸e̷ ̴S̴t̴a̴r̸k̸ ̷h̵e̶r̴e̸.̵ ̴A̵n̵d̴ ̶y̶o̶u̴,̷"̶ ** they turned to Bran now, **"****̶d̶i̸d̵ ̵y̷o̸u̵r̷ ̸b̷e̴s̵t̸ ̴t̸o̵ ̶f̸u̵f̷i̷l̴l̶ ̶y̸o̵u̵r̵ ̴d̴u̵t̷i̷e̷s̵ ̴e̷v̵e̸n̴ ̷w̵h̵e̵n̶ ̸y̶o̶u̶r̴ ̵b̸o̸d̴y̸ ̵w̷a̵s̵ ̶n̴o̸t̸ ̵y̶o̸u̵r̴ ̸o̴w̵n̶.̸"**

At once, the Children, dappled their fingers into the sap streaming from their eyes, and each struck on mark upon Bran and Meera's foreheads.

"**̵C̵h̴i̷l̷d̴ ̴o̴f̵ ̴t̶h̴e̴ ̵M̴a̴r̸s̴h̷,̷ ̷y̶o̴u̴ ̸s̵h̷a̶l̵l̸ ̶k̷n̸o̴w̴ ̵b̴e̸t̵t̶e̸r̶ ̷d̷a̶y̷s̷ ̴t̵h̴a̵n̶ ̵y̷o̴u̸ ̶d̷i̵d̸ ̷o̴n̸c̷e̷ ̴b̴e̵f̸o̷r̴e̶.̷ ̴W̶e̴ ̴g̸r̸a̶n̴t̴ ̶y̶o̷u̴ ̴l̷e̷a̴v̵e̴ ̴t̵o̷ ̵s̵p̵e̴a̷k̷ ̷w̴i̷t̵h̵ ̸y̷o̴u̴r̸ ̷b̷r̸o̶t̵h̴e̸r̶ ̸a̸n̴d̶ ̷f̵a̶t̵h̴e̷r̶ ̸o̴n̵c̴e̷ ̵y̶o̴u̵ ̸l̴e̷a̸v̵e̵.̷"̵**

Meera said nothing, opting instead to stifle the tears that had sprung from her eyes.

Then the Children turned to Bran.

"**̷C̶h̶i̴l̵d̷ ̴o̶f̴ ̵W̸i̷n̸t̶e̵r̷.̸...**

**Y̷̴̷o̸̸̵u̷̸̷ ̷̷̵w̷̵̶i̵̴̴l̶̸̵l̵̴̵ ̵̶̷r̸̵̴u̵̴̸n̷̵̶ ̷̷̵a̴̵̵m̸̷̷o̴̷̵n̸̴̶g̸̶̷s̶̸̷t̶̷̷ ̴̶̶y̴̷̸o̴̷̵u̴̵̶r̵̷̸ ̸̷̷p̵̷̶a̸̴̷c̵̶̶k̶̴̷ ̴̸̸o̶̷̷n̶̸̵c̸̴̶e̵̸̴ ̵̶̷m̸̷̴o̵̶̵r̶̴̶e̷̶̴.̷̷̴"̸̶̷**

Then the Children went slack again, and the sap stopped flowing. Then they blinked, and straightened again, taking in the situation in a daze. They were silent for a moment, seemingly speaking amongst themselves, they turned and left the cave, no doubt to discuss what had just occurred.

Bran and Meera just sat there.

Then the Reed girl stood up. "Bran, I…" she trailed off, then stood up. "I'm going to go outside for a moment. I'll be back soon, then we can talk."

Bran shifted in place for a moment, and his eyes widened a fraction, and he nodded absently to her. Meera frowned, but stood and went, tapping Hodor on the shoulder as she passed. "It's safe now, Hodor. You can look, now."

"Th-thanks."

Meera took a step, then froze.

_Did- did Hodor just speak? _She stayed in place for a moment, before pushing it out of her mind and walking outside.

It was snowing lightly, thankfully, and Meera felt her fears of the Night King lessen slightly for the moment. Finding a rocky outcrop nearby, she sat down. She stayed there for some time, thinking about what had just transpired, and reminiscing on her memories.

"_Hallo, Meera."_

She jolted from her spot when a familiar voice interrupted her thinking, and turned, unsheathing her knife as she went.

Only to lower it when she saw Jojen and her father sitting next to her.

"J-jojen?! Father?! How-"

"_They promised, didn't they?"_Jojen supplied. He had barely finished when his sister assaulted him with a hug. As much as he could barely feel it, it was a nice sentiment. **"**_It's good to see you too, sister."_

Meera released him, seemingly content, then turned and did the same to Howland, who chuckled and hugged her back. **"**_You look well for someone North of the Wall, Meera. I'm glad."_

The Reeds stayed like that for some time, embracing and talking and crying to their heart's content, then the sun began to set, and both Jojen and Howland stood up. **"**_We must return now. We cannot be gone for long,"_Howland said sadly, and Jojen nodded.

"Will I see you again?" Meera asked, and Jojen shrugged and gave a smile. **"**_Mayhaps, Meera. But we will watch you, and wish you well."_

Meera sighed, and hugged her family goodbye. Howland ruffled her curls slightly. **"**_You are the Lady of the Marsh, Meera. Do not forget that."_

She nodded. ""I want to be someone you and Jojen can be proud of, father."

Howland laughed.** "**_You already have, sweetling."_

Then they were gone, and Meera was left alone again. Sighing, she watched the spot where her brother and father had disappeared for a few minutes, then she went inside.

The sight inside stopped her in her tracks.

The Children watched, as they were wont to do, as Bran leaned upon Hodor, and took tentative steps.

_Steps._

Bran looked towards her, a joy unlike any she had seen before in his eyes. "Meera, I can _walk_."

* * *

**A/N: Because they deserved better.**


	6. Of Wolves Cold and Unbroken

Bran

Bran was no stranger to death.

Meera had said it best; he _had _died in that cave beneath the Heart Tree, or at least, the Bloodraven had done his best to ensure that Brandon Stark would never resurface to retake his body. In a way, it was even worse than death; at least then he would be able to rest, to see his mother and father and brothers, maybe even Jojen.

Instead, he was forced to watch everything fall apart before his eyes, both future and present. The Bloodraven had manipulated events to his liking in the ultimate attempt to steer Westeros towards his end goal, to which Bran was still in the dark of, though that was probably for the best. The Wight Hunt, the destruction of the Wall, the Razing of King's Landing, all foreseen by him.

Yet he could do nothing, except on the rare occasions where either the Bloodraven agreed with something Bran wanted or couldn't care enough to stop him, like dismissing Meera from his service and sending her back to the Neck. The Bloodraven saw it as an opportunity to slowly remove Bran's support base, keeping his consciousness anchored to his body.

Bran saw it as an opportunity to remove Meera from danger.

And then there was Theon.

Gods, how Bran_ hated_ Theon.

Theon took Winterfell. Theon got Maester Luwin killed. Theon helped ruin Robb's campaign South. Theon executed Rodrik. Theon killed the boys who sheltered them ever-so-briefly. Theon let Winterfell fall to the Boltons. Theon said nothing while Sansa married that monster in flayed flesh. Theon _did_ nothing while his sister was defiled and raped. Theon did nothing to save Rickon from Ramsay. Theon went to join Daenerys instead of returning to help Sansa reclaim her home.

Then Theon had died in defense of him.

That was intentional.

Bran would have survived without Theon's sacrifice.

He knew it.

The Bloodraven knew it.

Theon did not.

To see him writhe on the ground wounded and dying in the same manner Maester Luwin was the last true joy Bran had experienced in his (old? Yet-to-be?) life, and with Theon's death, he allowed himself to stop fighting the Bloodraven.

A mistake.

Then King's Landing happened, Jon was imprisoned, and the last of the Starks (save Jon) sailed South once more to save their last kin.

And the Bloodraven manipulated them all into crowning him King, and the last time he had seen any of his siblings was when they were vehemently protesting Jon's punishment.

By then, it was too late for Bran to do anything, and the Bloodraven sent them away.

Leaving him alone.

No one came to visit. Sansa and Meera stayed in the North, Jon was never allowed to leave the Wall, and Arya had sailed west, never to return.

He didn't blame them.

He had given up all hope of seeing the North again when the Bloodraven made the mistake of relaxing four years after the Second War for Dawn.

It was a simple matter of starting to block certain images of the future until the assassins were too far in the Red Keep to be stopped by any of the Keepguard, let alone Bran the Broken, and Bran finally found himself free of his crippled body via knives to the chest.

He died.

Then he woke, in a vision he had partaken long ago under the tutelage of the now-deceased Bloodraven, underneath the Great Heart Tree beyond the Wall.

Then the raven opened his eye, and he _woke_.

And now he was here, alive, in a body that truly belonged to him and him alone, whole and unbroken, with the chance to stop the continued decline of both his family and the North as a whole. Hells, even Hodor had been healed of the damage done to him by Bran himself, which meant that the Night King, while aware of his existence, could do nothing to him until he left the safety of the Children's protection, which was infinitely more safer than it had been before, thanks to the intervention of the gods of old. Even now, the last Children of the Forest communed to speak of the events that had just transpired, leaving Bran to explore his regained mobility, something which he did with an eagerness he was surprised he still possessed. Enlisting Hodor's aid for possibly the last time, the eldest surviving Stark son stood, and strode.

_Gods be good._

It was only after Meera tackled him with a hug and pressed her forehead to his that Brandon Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven, the Unbroken Wolf, and the former King of the Andals, Rohynar, and First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, finally let his tears fall free.

* * *

Meera

It had been a long time since she had cried this much.

Not since leaving the Neck for the first time with Jojen had Meera felt such joy. Then, she had reveled in the fact that she was journeying North on a quest given to them by the Old Gods.

Now, she rejoiced for the return of the Bran she once knew.

And loved.

So elated was she for Bran when he revealed he had regained the use of his legs that she hugged him with enough force that sent them sprawling to the moss-covered floor. Bran only gave a laughing sob and hugged her tighter.

It was…

...nice.

Meera lost track of the time they spent in each other's embrace on the surprisingly warm mossbed that made up the cave floor, simply content to just lay there with Bran. If she focused on it hard enough, she could imagine that they were lying on a mattress in a castle somewhere.

_It's almost like a dream_, she thought to herself happily, then she jolted slightly as Bran huffed; apparently, she had spoken those words out loud.

"If it was a dream," Bran mumbled from besides her, "you and I would be married."

Meera stiffened, almost disbelieving of what she'd just heard.

_Did… did he just…?_

"...You want to marry me?"

Bran's eyes shot open as he fully comprehended what he had just said. He shot up from his place besides her, opening his mouth to apologize for his presumptuous words-

Only for Meera to cut that train of thought in two with a single word.

"Alright."

Bran blinked. "...Truly? You... don't have any objections?"

Meera nodded, hiding her raging emotions behind a sleepy mask.

_Gods be good, if this is a dream, never let me wake. _

"I'll marry you, if you'll have me. I never took a husband in the other life, so I might as well now, yes?"

_Please say yes._

Bran stared at her, as if entranced by the song of a siren, silent.

Then, with little hesitance, took her hand in his.

"Meera, would you take me to be yours?"

It was at that precise moment that Meera came to the conclusion that living through her last life had been worth it, just for this.

"Yes."

Under the eyes of the Old Gods, they sealed their promise with a long awaited kiss.

* * *

The being paused, slowing his mount to a halt, and listened to the winter winds as they twisted and howled.

Something had changed.

The Bloodraven was dead, that much he knew; the saying 'words are wind' was meant to be taken much more literally for beings of his ilk, and the... others who he shared comparison with. A new Three-Eyed Raven had risen to take his place, as was the norm, yet still the Children beckoned him.

Twas not the first time they had summoned him hither, but it was the first time they had used images of relative non-importance to his mission to bid him return.

_Warmth._

_Fire._

_Hearth._

_Home._

_Family._

The former First Man had known, when he had accepted the renewed life the Children of the Forest had given him, that there was much chance of him dying, colder and alone than ever, with little chance of recognition, reconciliation, or a chance to see his family again.

Yet, they promised him now.

For the first time in years, he saw himself dying peacefully at the hands of old age, surrounded by warm faces.

Warmth or not, he would heed the call.

So it was that Benjen Stark, the last child of Rickard Stark in the realm of the living, turned his steed North, and rode for the Great Heart Tree.

* * *

**A/N: You didn't think I'd just leave him out here wandering beyond the Wall, did you? Benjen, like the others, deserved better.**

**Also, for clarification, both Meera and Bran will go through the proper marriage rites before they leave for Winterfell, they're not married just yet.**

**Anyways, next up; Sansa goes hunting in Mole's Town, and Jon receives an unexpected visitor, or two. Until next time.**


	7. Hunting With Moles

Sansa

When they woke, they talked.

It had been long, uncomfortable, unnerving, and, at points, angering, but they talked.

And when all was said and done, all the grievances between Jon and her had been cast away, and Sansa couldn't be more happy.

It had been, by then, closing in on a fortnight since her arrival at Castle Black, Jon having received Ramsay's letter a dozen days after her escape. He had scanned the letter, and shrugged, passing it to her, and she had to concentrate a little to remove her eyes from his broad shoulders. Taking the parchment, she too scanned it, then stood up and strode to the nearby hearth and cast in into the fire. Turning back, she addressed the Tormund, the kiss-by-fire Freefolk chieftain perking up at his name. "You have two-thousand men, correct?" At his nod, she had turned to Jon. "Ramsay has five-thousand men, many of them mounted. We'll need at least three-thousand to even the odds."

Jon nodded, standing up and joining her by the fire to watch the parchment burn."The Mormonts, Hornwoods, and Mazins will rally to us." he had spoken, and she'd nodded; they had rallied behind them before. "I'm still waiting on the reply of the Mountain Clans, but if they were to join us, they should help tilt the odds in our favor."

That had been several days ago, and now Sansa was sitting in a rocking chair, Ghost's massive frame slumbering besides her as she made Jon a new cloak, still fashioned like her father's.

_What would you think us, father?_

She knew, as well as Jon did, that their approach in this life would be far different than the last, and there would be few situations where they would act honorably.

Honor died in the Sept of Baelor with her father.

...That's probably why she disliked the Seven-Who-Are-One so much. That, and, being Queen in the North for a decade had brought out the Northman in her.

Still, thinking of her father brought back a recent memory of a conversation she'd had with Jon.

"_Rhaegar may have been your sire," _she remembered telling him one night, "_but Eddard Stark was your father."_

But she was not his sister.

She felt it was somewhat important to understand the distinction.

Her thoughts were cut off when someone, no doubt scanned by Brienne for weapons, entered the room. "Yes?"

The Night's Watch Brother stopped forward, holding a rolled piece of parchment in his hand. "It's for you, M'lady." Handing her the message, he turned and left, and only then did Sansa truly focus on the sigil the seal bore.

House Arryn.

_Baelish._

Sansa let loose a smile grin, before vacating her seat and casting the message into the fire. With that done, she walked out of the room, Ghost, who'd just woken up, ambling besides her, and she ruffled his snow-white fur.

_Gods_, she missed Lady.

Ghost abruptly nudged her side, pulling her out of her thoughts, and she found they had arrived at her goal, so she approached the door a rapped on it twice, and stood back.

She hadn't been waiting long when the door swung open, Jon's haggard visage lighting up from it's sloop.

"Sansa," he smiled, and for a split-second all she could focus on were his lips. Then she came back to herself, and and returned the smile. "Jon."

Stepping aside so she could enter the room, Jon sheathed the sword he'd been holding in his free hand, something that Sansa could not, and would not, blame him for.

She'd born witness to him writhing in his sleep far too often due to dreams like the night he died.

Pushing the morbid thoughts away, she sat in one of the chairs available, watching Jon as he made his way back to his desk, back to the many pieces of parchment and jars of liquid wax. "I take it you've nearly finished the letters?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, the last ones are nearly finished. I sent several more yesterday, and the day before, to the Skagosi. I'd give it close to a fortnight if they choose to respond."

Sansa herself nodded at that; it had been her idea to call upon the Skagosi for aid, mainly due to the fact that she'd had some dealings with the islanders during her reign as Queen in the North. "I suppose we'll have to continue to wait then." She then hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. "It arrived. Baelish is in Mole's Town, waiting for me."

"Mm, aye, alright. Take Brienne with you, like last time."

Sansa blinked. "I thought you'd make a fuss out of it, considering what we know of Littlefinger's deeds."

Looking up from the letters, Jon gave a shrug and a smile. "I trust you to do what's best. I've no need to fear."

_...Oh gods, what had she done to deserve like him?_

"I-" she let out a shuddering sigh.

How long had it been since the end of the war that someone had trusted her unconditionally, without seeking to oppose her authority? "Thank you, _Madadh-allaidh treun_."

At that last phrase, Jon's head jerked up from his writings. "You speak the Old Tongue?"

Grinning, Sansa nodded. "_Dh'ionnsaich an Skagosi mi_. I did tell you that I started treating with them two years afterwards, did I not?" Rising from her seat, she strode over to Jon and kissed his forehead. "I'll be back before nightfall. Keep Ghost with you, I would feel better if he did."

He smiled again, and once more Sansa was drawn to his quirked lips, before turning to leave, petting Ghost when she passed the Direwolf. Just before shutting the door, however, Jon called out to her, and she paused momentarily. "Keep to the roads," he blurted out. "Stay safe, _leannán_."

Smiling, she left him, and went to locate Brienne.

There was a Mockingbird flitting around her den that need to be dealt with.

_(It was only later, when she lay in bed, slumber claiming her, that she realized exactly just what Jon had called her.)_

* * *

Petyr

Just like he knew she would, Sansa arrived to meet with him, and he smiled. "Sansa…" His smile mellowed out when Sansa's brute of a Sworn Sword lumbered in behind her. "...Lady Brienne." he greeted her somewhat reluctantly. The last he'd seen her (and the last time he had ever expected to see the ugly woman) was when she had tried to take Sansa away from him.

Now it seemed that their roles were reversed. Ironic.

Silence permeated for a moment, before Petyr broke it. "When I heard you'd escaped Winterfell I had feared the worst," he started. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed-"

"_Unharmed?_!" The tone of her voice very much implied that she either didn't believe that, or she was upset with him. "What are you doing here?"

_And here, the truth would serve me best._ "I rode north with the Knights of the Vale to come to your aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak."

Sansa huffed slightly, disbelieving. "To come to my aid, you say." Before he could nod, or give an answer, Sansa moved on, forcing the conversation in her direction. _Smart girl._

"...Did you know about Ramsay?"

The quick response h;d been prepared to give died in his throat. He knew, as well as anyone would, that this dangerous territory, and if this were anyone else, he'd tread carefully here.

However, it was _Sansa_. He had nothing to fear. Yet, he would play it safe regardless.

Once again, Sansa gave no time to respond, however. "If you _didn't_ know, you're an idiot, and if you _did_, you're my enemy. Would you like to hear about our wedding night?"

The abrupt change in topic momentarily caught him off guard, Petyr would admit, and he could provide no answer, so Sansa continued.

"He never hurt my face. He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of me… he did what he liked with the rest of me, so long as I could still give him an heir. What do you think he did to me?"

_...Trade carefully, Baelish._ "I can't begin to contemplate-"

"_What do you think he did to me_?"

He stood there for a moment, formulating an answer, and was still forming it when Sansa's brute took a threatening step forward, hand on the pommel of her sword. "Lady Sansa asked you a question."

"...He beat you-"

"Yes, he enjoyed that, what else do you think he did?"

"Sansa, I don't"

"_What. Else_?"

Clenching his fists slightly at the rising tension, Petyr's mind raced to find the right words. "...Did he cut you?"

Evidently, that had not been the right thing to say, since her eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe you _did _know about Ramsay all along," she glared, and Petyr denied it immediately. "I didn't know," he lied, because of _course _he knew of the bastard's tendencies, he just didn't think him foolish enough to act on them.

Sansa scoffed. "I thought you knew everyone's secrets."

"I made I mistake," Petyr admitted, because that _was _true, he knew that now. "A horrible mistake, I underestimated a stranger." It galled him to no end, truly.

"The other things he did," the red-haired woman spat out, "ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time." She took a ragged breath. "I can still feel it. I don't mean '_In my tender heart it still pains me so,_' I can still feel what he did in my body standing here right now."

_Gods,_ he'd made a massive mistake sending her there.

He truly regretted sending Cat's daughter to the Boltons.

"I'm _so_ sorry."

"You said you would _protect _me."

"And I will," he hastily added, "You must believe me when I tell you that I will-"

Sansa's cold stare turned into a full-out glare, contempt in her eyes. "I don't believe you anymore. I don't _need_ you anymore. You can't protect me.

You won't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down. And why shouldn't I?"

Pyetr knew he was in dangerous, _dangerous_ ground, but he knew he could come back from this. Sansa wasn't that stupid enough to actually order such a thing. "You want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that's within my power, I will do."

There was another bout of silence, as Sansa stared at him, Tully-blue eyes as cold as ice, then she spoke again.

"And if I want you to die, here and now?"

"Then I will die."

Petyr thought that was it.

He had appealed to her in the ways he knew would appease her, had offered his undying servitude in all but name, and expressed his sympathies bare.

For a moment, it seemed to have worked, as he could see that she was visibly fighting several emotions at once.

_Twas my mistake to send you away from me, truly. I will rectify this, I swear, then you and I shall-_

Sansa grinned.

"Brienne."

He had no time to even back away before the Sworn Sword had strode past her charge and clamped him in an iron grip. Struggling to escape, he turned to Sansa in desperation, horror beginning to grow as he saw her watching the spectacle with curiosity, and not a hint of hesitation. "Lady Sansa, wha-"

"You said, Lord Baelish, that if I were to ask you to die, here and now, that you would die."

Petyr's stomach plummeted like a stone in water. "Sansa, I _swear_ to you, I would forever be your servant should you spare me!"

At that Sansa scoffed again. "You are servant to no one but yourself, _Baelish_," she spat, before turning to Brienne. "To his knees."

Petyr barely had time to react before he was shoved to the ground, and finally, he was released, the Knight walking off to the corner of the small building. "Sansa, you- you can't kill me! You need the Knights of the Vale to-"

His rising fear exploded when Brienne returned, plopping down next to him a block of wood. At that, he tried to stand and run, only for Brienne to grab him by the scruff and force him down again, before turning to look at her charge. "Lady Sansa, give me the word and I shall strike this cur down for his crimes."

Baelish couldn't move, frozen in a fear he'd not felt since his conversation with Cersei Lannister, and craned his head to glimpse the woman that would take his li-

"Lady Brienne, give me my sword."

The Sworn Sword paused, obviously confused, and Petyr could not deny the same. _Sword? Sansa carries no sword._

But, evidently, the blond brute realized what her master referred to, and drew her own sword, before holding it out to Sansa, and Petyr's blood froze.

Gently cradling the sword in one hand and running another up the length of the steel, Sansa look enraptured.

"Did you know that this was once my father's sword, Ice? But of course you knew," she continued, studying the blade, "you're the one who hired the man to split it in two for the Lannisters." Letting the sword drop and drag on the ground she strode towards him.

"I thought it ironic to have you executed with it. Vengeance for my father, the man you betrayed."

His eyes widened. _That's- that can't be! She can't possibly know?_

Seemingly understanding his thoughts, Sansa proved him wrong. "It matters not to you _how _I learned you betrayed my father in King's Landing. All that matters is that you know _I_ know."

Coming to a stop in front of him, Sansa studied him, and he was shocked to find pure _hatred _filling her eyes.

_That…_

_That couldn't be Sansa._

"Who- Who _are_ you?!"

Lifting up the Valyrian Steel blade, Sansa's face seemed to be carved of ice, and Petyr could only gape and quiver as his end loomed over him, wielded by the very girl he had groomed..

"Who am I?" the woman parroted back. "I am Sansa of House Stark, Magnar of the Mountain, Chieftess of the Skagosi,_ Àrd Bhanrigh_ of Winter, and Queen in the North. I condemn you, Petyr of House Baelish, to the eternal judgment of my gods."

Just before she swung, Baelish saw a wolfish grin light up her face.

"Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish."

"_Sansa, I beg of y-_"

* * *

Sansa

Baelish's head rolling along the ground was one of the most beautiful sights she'd ever seen.

* * *

_"Madadh-allaidh treun" **(Brave Wolf)**_

_"Dh'ionnsaich an Skagosi mi" **(The Skagosi taught me)**_

_"Leannán" **(Love)**_

_"Àrd Bhanrigh" **(High Queen)**_

**A/N: Okay, no Jon this chapter. I'll rectify that in the next one, I swear.**

**...Writing Baelish was hard.**


	8. Rookery

Jon

Sansa had been gone for all of five minutes before Jon's words finally caught up to him, and the realization caused him to stop as if he'd walked into a wall.

_Fuckin' hell. Leannan?! Of all the words, you called her 'lover?!' The **last **thing she needs is another man seemingly lusting for her, let alone me!_

He ignored the part of his mind that told him it wasn't lust.

Jon bemoaned it for several moments (that was a lie; he spent hours pouring over the words) before forcefully shoving it from his mind, after which he turned on his heel and set off in a stride to find who had once been his unofficial hand. He had a task in mind for the old smuggler that would come in handy should it succeed, and no one at his disposal save Davos himself could do it-

Actually, there was the Red Woman.

Jon's face soured at the thought of the R'hollor worshiper, and his hand moved unconsciously to the scars above his heart. It was far to easy, he noted, to compare the way he felt now and the way he had felt before his resurrections. Last time, he'd been resurrected by Melisandre's god, which had left him feeling dark and numb and wrong, and apparently addled in the mind and lacking for wits, seeing as his actions in his old life suggested so.

So long as he lived, he would never let himself forget the fact that he disregarded the fact that Winterfell had walls.

And he placed the gods-damned siege weaponry outside of them.

_Fuckin' R'Holler._

Pacing down the halls of Castle Black, his faithful Ghost at his side, Jon eventually came to the room Ser Davos had taken to calling his during Stannis stay. At the thought of the Baratheon King, Jon found his mind straying from the man himself to his daughter-

Who was **burned alive**.

Rage.

Unlike when he had first been told of the Lady Shireen's death, Jon now felt the ever-increasing need to find the Red Lady and throw her off the Wall.

Maybe he would. Sansa might like it.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Jon rapped thrice on the doors to Davos' chambers, and waited. Sure enough, the Onion Knight opened it half a minute later. "Lord Commander," he greeted, and Jon snorted. "Lord Commander no longer, Ser Davos, but I do need to request a task of you."

"What d'you need of me, lad?"

Jon stayed silent for a moment, before walking over to the window and gazing outside, looking to the gate. "Stannis' ships are still anchored at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

Davos blinked at that. "Surely not, the sellswords would have sailed them away by now!" Jon shook his head. "I have it on good authority that the sellswords never made it back." And it was the truth; before departing for beyond the wall, he had journeyed to Eastwatch during a then-routine maintenance patrol, only to find the ships in a small natural harbor not too far away, but the men dead from the Winter snows. The sellswords, he had learned from Sansa upon reuniting again, had died trekking through the North attempting to get to Eastwatch. "I need you to make haste east and claim those ships. Can you do that?"

The older man looked apprehensive, so Jon explained further. "Second only to Stannis himself, you were the Baratheon's naval master. They listened to you, and with Stannis and all his Lords and knights dead, it is to you that their command falls under."

Davos pursed his lips, frowning in concentration. "Aye, I suppose your right." He sighed, but nodded to Jon. "I'll do it, lad. Is there anything else? What should I do once I get those ships?"

"Sail them down to White Harbour," Jon ordered, "and present them to the Manderlys as a gift from House Stark. Remind them that the Starks have endured for eight thousand years and will endure for eight thousand more."

"Aye, I'll do that then. When do I leave?"

"As soon as you can, Ser Davos." The man nodded, and Jon turned to leave, but faltered for a moment before turning back. "And, should they refuse to send aid, mention the Greystarks. They will know of what I speak."

Then he turned and left.

_I have a Red Woman to find._

* * *

He found her atop the Wall, staring out into the Lands of Always Winter. She wore nothing but her usual red garbs and that pulsating red ruby on her necklace, that thing that held back whatever forces pursued death. Melisandre didn't react as he exited the lift and stomped over to her, only sparing a glance. "Azhor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised. I believed it would be Stannis who would lead through the Long Night wrought by the Great Other, but now…" she trailed off, staring at him fully now, an unreadable expression on her face. "The Lord of Light has shown me my error, has guided me to you, Jon Snow. There can be no other reason-"

"Spare me your foreign religion, _losgaidh_," Jon spat. "I have no wish for it. Were I a lesser man, I would throw you off the Wall for your crimes, but much as I loath to admit it, your Lord of Light probably needs you to face the coming Winter, and you need to be alive for that."

The mysterious smile on Melisandre's lips fell from it, and her face became slightly colder. "The Lord of Light brought you back to life. How could you not wish to know more of him?"

The former King in the North snorted at that. "Aye, he brought me back to life… once. This time, though? It was not your god who resurrected me, but _my_ gods who did. Aye, R'Holler may give you power, but this is the _North_. These are Northern lands, good lands. _Our_ gods live here. Not the Seven. Not R'Holler."

Having had enough of the Red Woman, Jon turned away and started back towards the lift. "You would do well to remember that, Lady Melisandre, just as you would do well to remember the name of Shireen Baratheon. You owe her that, at least, for burning her alive."

Ignoring the flash of shock that flitted across her face, Jon left her alone in the snow.

* * *

Upon descending from the wall, Jon made the decision to go check the rookery for new messages. Over the course of several days, many of the smaller Northern Houses saw fit to declare for them (Sansa, because she was the Stark of Winterfell, not him, never him), but no word had arrived from the Skagosi or the Mountain Clans.

Jon hoped today would be different in that regard.

As if the gods were listening to him, the ravens that he and Sansa had sent to the Wolfswood Mountains and Skagosi were waiting for him on their perches, and Jon let out a sigh of relief. Gently untying the message from the Skagosi raven, Jon unraveled it, and was somewhat surprised to find the message written in the Runic language of the Old Tongue.

" ᛟᚢᚱ ᛊᚹᛟᚱᛞᛊ ᚨᚱᛖ ᛁᛟᚢᚱᛊ, ᛚᚨᛊᛏ ᚺᛖᚱᛟ," it read.

_Our swords are yours, Last Hero._

He… didn't know what to make of it. Quite obviously, the Skagosi were pledging support, but the bit about the Last Hero?

Jon knew enough of prophecies and folklore to know who the Last Hero was supposed to be, and he still remembered the words uttered to him upon his awakening. He also knew enough of prophecy to know that those who heeded its words were foolish, like the man who sired him, may the gods damn his soul.

_Gods, will I never escape the words of Prophecy?_

Placing the parchment aside, Jon reached for the other message from the Mountain Clans, and was pleased to see that it was less cryptic than the Skagosi one.

_We remember the good times, when the Starks ruled these lands, when The Ned was the Stark in Winterfell. We of the mountains have not forgotten where our loyalties lie. We march on the Queenscrown, under the banners of the Direwolf. Lead us, Àrd Bhanrigh."_

_Ever faithful,_

_The Magnars of the Mountain_

Jon grinned.

Placing both rolls of parchment in the folds of his cloak, Jon left the rookery. Exiting the tower, he once again turned to the gate, just in time to witness Sansa's return as she guided her steed through the open gates, looking as radiant as the day she was crowned Queen.

...

Jon made a silent vow to the gods, then, that he would see Sansa seated on her rightful throne, no matter the cost.

He swore it on earth and water.

He swore it with bronze and iron.

He swore it by Ice and Fire.

* * *

_"Losgaidh." **(Burner)**_


	9. To Bear Island and Back

Sansa

She could recall perfectly the last time she had stepped foot on Bear Island perfectly, despite it being only the one time during the first year into her decade-long reign.

Sansa recalled, that day, that when she had first seen Bear Island alongside Jon, she had thought it simple and quaint, in a Northern way that violently contrasted with the pomp of the South, and she had loved it immediately.

Of course, never could she return to any one place without cause, and never was that cause good, or untainted by bad memories, and this was one such case.

She had brought home Lyanna's ashes.

House Mormont had gone extinct with the death of Lyanna 'Giantsbane' Mormont (that was something she actually needed to talk to Jon about; wasn't Tormund always boasting about rutting with a bear?) and Sansa had no choice but to find a suitable replacement for what had been House Stark's most loyal House, and she did not hesitate when she said _most loyal._

Lady Mormont, even knowing that the Stark army was outnumbered, had given her meagre amount of men to the cause out that loyalty, while the other "loyal" Houses (half the Houses of the North would have been stripped of their Lordships if Sansa had her way and if the North could take such an upheaval) had done nothing but watch as the Boltons drove the North into the ground at the behest of southern Kings, and Sansa did not forget that.

She was aware that holding grudges like that would weaken the North in the long run due to its current state, so Sansa was willing to let the matter go, but never again would she trust the Houses of the North as much as she would the Mormonts, and for good reason.

"Sansa? Are you well?"

Jon's concerned voice snapped the former Queen in the North out of her increasingly morose thoughts, and she shook her head. "Sorry, it's just… it's been a while since I've been here, on Bear Island."

Jon grunted in acknowledgment. "Aye, I suppose I should say the same." Then he gave a wistful smile. "I've not seen Lady Mormont in some time either. Her brashness will be a welcome change."

Sansa giggled lightly. "I hope so."

The two Northerners and their fell silent when a guard emerged from Lyanna's solar.

"The Lady Mormont will see you now."

With a reassuring nod to each other, the two wolves strode forward, and, whilst reminiscing upon her memories of her first entrance to the Lady Mormont's solar, Sansa's thoughts trailed back to the aftermath of her visit to Mole's Town.

* * *

_As soon as Sansa and Brienne had returned from Mole's Town after burning Littlefinger's corpse and buying materials for Jon's wolf-pelt cloak, the former Lord Commander had called for everyone of import to meet him in the Lord Commander's solar. After they had all sat, Jon apprised them that he had sent Davos east to claim the ships Stannis had left anchored by Eastwatch, something that had mildly surprised Sansa, but also pleased her that Jon was putting her knowledge to good use._

_And then he turned to Tormund and the Free Folk chieftains. "How many of your best climbers are left? Who can fight, that is?"_

_"I could count two hundred climbers that could fight well," one of the surviving elders from Hardhome, Dim Dalba, supplied, and Jon nodded before addressing them again, focusing on two points on the map lying between them.._

_"As it would turn out, the traitor Lords Karstark and Umber have taken all their fighting men to Winterfell, the fools."_

_Immediately, Sansa understood what Jon meant to do, and grinned in anticipation._

_Seeing her catch on, Jon shared the wolfish smile, and forged on._

_"Tell me, Tormund; how well do you think your men can scale a castle's walls?"_

* * *

...Gods, she loved it when he thought with his head like that.

Sansa didn't know why Jon thought himself unsuited for rule when he was obviously good at it; at least when he wasn't focusing on making sure the Dragon Queen didn't burn Winterfell to the ground.

Shaking her head, she brought her attention back to the present, taking comfort in Jon's reassuring presence beside her.

Just like last time, Jon and Sansa strode forward, steps in-sync, before halting at a respectable distance. There was a stillness that emanated for a moment before the door behind them shut with a clack, and all three were jarred into action.

"Lady Mormont," Sansa greeted, face showing nothing, and the Stark was amused to find the same stern look on Lyanna's face, who finally deigned to greet them.

"Welcome to Bear Island. Our swords are yours."

"Thank you, Lady Mormont. We've come... to..."

Jon's words gradually faltered to a stop when he finished processing exactly what Lyanna had said, then blinked.

Wait, what?

Even the girl's advisors that were present seemed shocked at the girl's immediate acknowledgment of fealty to them, and they were in their rights to do so.

Sansa herself stared at the Mormont girl in mild shock, before breaking the silence that had befallen them. "...You would swear your men to us so easily? Why? Surely we've done nothing to earn your trust, however much we wish for it." She studied the younger, who suddenly seemed a bit… wary(?) for some reason, but Lyanna spoke nonetheless.

"I have been having… No, I shan't speak of it, not here," Lady Mormont divulged reluctantly, and her hesitance immediately raised concern in Sansa. _This is Lyanna Mormont, who spoke down the Northern Lords, all of which had seen more battles than she had seen namedays. What has frightened her so? What has she borne witness to?_

Evidently, someone else had a similar train of thought, as another query was posed. "What did you see, my Lady?" Ser Davos spoke up from behind them, and though several of Lady Mormont's guards scowled at him, she did not seem insulted at his question, only more cautious. Lyanna thought on her words carefully, before asking a question of her own.

"Jon Snow."

"Aye?"

"You were Lord Commander, and you let the Wildlings through the wall. What made you do so? What frightened them so much that they would accept the word of a Crow?"

At that, Sansa's eyes widened by a fraction, and she shared a subtle look with Jon, who seemed to be scrutinizing Lyanna as much as she was him. The former King in the North thought over his answer for a moment, before finally replying with two morose words Old Tongue.

"_Na mairbh_."

The dead.

At his words, the Northmen in the roomed reared back and immediately made signs for warding off evil, and Sansa was mildly surprised that she had automatically done so as well, though she was glad she had.

_It is good to see I've not forgotten the lessens the Skagosi taught me._

Her attention was brought back to Lyanna, who had mimicked the sign but had not flinched like her advisors had; rather, she had stood up, and marched over to the weapon hanging on the wall behind her desk, and drew the axe from its cradle, before rounding her desk and coming to a stop in front of them. "Who do I swear to?"

The two wolves blinked.

"What?" Jon asked in confusion, and Lyanna snorted. "I assume one of you intends to crown the other, and House Mormont knows no King, or Queen, than the one in the North whose name is Stark. He," she pointed to Jon, "has the blood of Eddard Stark in his veins, and my Uncle gave you his sword for a reason, and I trust that reason, whatever it may be." Before Jon could even respond to that, Lyanna turned to Sansa and continued. "And you are the eldest surviving Trueborn Stark, since the last King in the North died at the Red Wedding. The Boltons have your youngest brother, you sister hasn't been seen by Northern eyes in years, and you other brother disappeared after the Sacking of Winterfell. You are the rightful heir to Winterfell, and I would follow you."

"Even if I was married to a Lannister and a Bolton?" Sansa questioned somewhat bitterly, but to her astonishment, Lyanna shook her head.

"I've learned that not all women are like us Bear Islanders," the Lady Mormont admitted somewhat ashamedly. "While, Old Gods willing, I will never experience what you have, the dreams have made it clear to me the despair and hopelessness one feels when surrounded by enemies you can do nothing to fight, and I do not hold your marriages against you."

Sansa stared.

This… hadn't happened last time.

Seemingly growing impatient with their lack of response, Lyanna growled. "I do not have all day, Lord Commander, Lady Sansa. Who do I swear to?"

The two wolves exchanged another quick glance before turning back to the Mormont girl, and just before Sansa opened her mouth to tell Lyanna to direct her fealty to Jon, said man unsheathed his sword and knelt at her feet.

"The fealty of House Mormont belongs to the Lord of Lady of Winterfell, Lady Mormont, and that title falls to Sansa. The North is hers, by right."

Jon's declaration was met with silent shock from the former Queen in the North, who had not even the time to glare at his impromptu swearing of fealty before Lyanna shrugged and knelt, laying her axe at Sansa's feet alongside Longclaw. "Then it is to you I swear, my Queen."

With that, she bowed her head, and spoke.

"To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Bear Island. Hearth and harvest and we yield unto you, my lady. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you."

I swear it by earth and water.

I swear it by bronze and iron.

I swear it by ice and fire."

There was silence again, as Sansa took in the pledge that had been laid before her, before she nodded, and bade both the Lady Mormont and Jon rise. "I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Magnar of the Mountain, Chieftess of the Skagosi, _Àrd Bhanrigh_ of Winter and Queen in the North, do hereby accept House Mormont's pledge of fealty. Forever will you and yours have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods of the Forest, Earth, Sea, and Sky. Rise, Lady Mormont."

Lyanna stood first, followed by Jon, who had a small smile on his face, and Sansa felt her chest warm.

...

One House down.

Several more to go.

* * *

Jon

Honestly, he just wanted to get this over with.

Sansa had wanted to bypass Lord Glover altogether (and strip him of his lands and titles, and _Gods_, Jon wished he could let her,) due to the fact that he would most likely refuse to offer aid, like last time, but Jon shook his head.

"We shan't stay long, but we must try, Sansa. If we bypass him, he can claim that we never asked for aid from him, and therefore broke no vows."

She had huffed in annoyance then, but acquiesced reluctantly. "If we must," she grumbled, and Jon could only hide a smile.

After returning to Castle Black with Lady Lyanna and her sixty-two men, the two wolves isolated themselves front he others to speak of what was to come, and Jon was not surprised to find that Sansa had sent Brienne south to convince her uncle, the Blackfish, to come north, though he was slightly confused. "Why would you send her on a fool's errand? He didn't accept last time, why would he know?"

Sansa had only smiled mysteriously, so Jon shrugged and let it go.

Women were odd, sometimes.

Once that had been done, the two ridden down to Deepwood Motte to meet with Lord Glover, bringing with them a sealed box large enough to hold a man, and upon entering the keep, Jon had one of the Mormont men bring it over.

Before Robett Glover could even begin to refuse them, Jon gestured to the box, and spoke. "No doubt you've heard of my opening of the gate to let the Free Folk through, and no doubt you hate me for it, among other things."

The Lord Glover did not reply, only glaring at him, but Jon continued, ignoring the baleful stare. "My reason for doing so lies in there. Take a look, Lord Glover."

With that, he stepped back, putting space between them, and Robett held his gaze for a moment longer before striding over to the box, unlatching it, and opening it, only to pale in horror and immediately slam it shut.

Reeling away from the chest, Lord Glover stared at Jon, horrified. "_Dè an draoidheachd a tha seo_?!" he hissed in the Old Tongue, before switching back to Common. "What darkness have you brought into my home?!"

"Evidence of the threat mounting beyond the Wall," Jon declared, to the murmurs of Glover's men present in the courtyard. "A threat that, if the North is not united to face, will trample our lands underfoot and clog the causeway south with the living dead."

To his side, Sansa was watching him with an expression Jon couldn't quite place, but it made his chest blossom with heat. He reveled in it before tamping it down furiously. _Now is **not **the time, Snow._

Lord Glover, now having recovered from the revelation of the army of the dead, seemed to reluctantly muse on what Jon had implied, before letting himself be heard. "And you think that the Starks can face this threat?"

Here, Sansa stepped forward, a determined look overtaking her. "We've done so once before, during the Age of Heroes, and we will do it again. Our House words are "Winter is Coming" for a reason, Lord Glover." Having said her piece, she shifted over to Jon, and together the two wolves stood in solidarity, glaring defiantly at the Northern Lord.

Robert Glover closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, and the rage against them was- well, not gone, no- but lessened. "Your brother, Robb, he left my people for dead… But the North will never unite behind the Boltons, especially not with the Flayed Man's Bastard in command- and if what you say is true, death will be a mercy for me and mine." He sighed, then, turning away from them to march back into his keep.

Just before he re-entered his home, Robert turned back to them. "You will have our swords Now get out of my keep and take the evil with you." With that, he left them be.

The two former monarchs stood there for a moment, Jon turned to Sansa with a smirk. "Told you we were right to not pass him."

Sansa let out a small laugh, and Jon's smirk twisted into a genuine grin.

_Gods, he loved her._

_..._

_...oh._

_I love her._

* * *

Tormund

Usually, when the Crows spoke of a giant wolf, they spoke of Ghost.

Which was probably why the Gianstbane was racing down the courtyard to the front gate, because several men had already told him that there was _another_, accompanied by a woman.

King Crow said he had two sisters, and both had wolves. If this is her, he'd skin me alive like a Bolton man if I didn't see her safely to his room.

Rooms. Bah. Why sleep indoors when you could lie down in furs and watch the Northern night lights go by?

Fuckin' kneelers, honestly.

Finally reaching the gate, he nodded to the men manning it (the Free Folk and the Black Brothers, the ones that remained, got along decently thanks to King Crow and the new Lord Commander) and made his way outside the walls to check upon this new visitor and her wolf, only to stop abruptly when he caught sight of her.

He stared at her, and she stared back, before breaking out into a grin. "Tormund fuckin' Giantsbane, as I live and breathe! Took you long enough to get passed the damn Wall."

He was silent for a moment, before snorting, then laughing. "Hah! Haven't changed, I see!" Tormund chortled, before gesturing towards Castle Black. "Now, get in here and tell me how you've been, Osha, and how you got one of those giant wolves!"

* * *

_"Dè an draoidheachd a tha seo?!"_ **(What sorcery is this?!)**


End file.
